


Crossing the Rubicon

by djuniper (InsideOutsideUpsideDown)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M, Reader over 40, shy reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 02:42:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8039305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsideOutsideUpsideDown/pseuds/djuniper
Summary: Still working this out, girl meets boy.... girl isn't half his age.Misha's a single guy in this fic, because this is the first one I've ever written and it's complicated as it is.For a dear friend.





	1. Chapter 1

It was Sunday night and the Supernatural ATLCON was over. You were glad to have an extra night at the hotel, because you just weren't ready to pack up and leave yet.

You always felt weird at the end of a convention, still on a little high from seeing all your favorites, but starting to crash because you were headed home to life as usual. You tried to kick back with the TV but your brain kept buzzing.

Flipping aimlessly, both your TV and your heart screeched to a stop when you saw Castiel, fiery early Castiel with the sex hair, growling into Dean's face, “And I did it, all of it, for you.”

You heaved a big sigh, running your hand through your blue hair. 

Misha Collins, the actor who plays that character, is poison to your peace of mind. Not only is he beautiful, and surrounded by perfect specimens of manhood on the show, but from every indication he's a wonderful guy, too. Well-educated, loyal, funny af, and he runs his own charity. Really, did God build him just to make every other man on earth look unfinished?

You were one of the lucky fans, you'd actually touched him earlier today. _Listen to me, it's like I worship him. 'I touched his coat, I'm blessed!_ you think. But it was true, you had, as part of a photo opportunity. He'd actually wrapped you in the Castiel trench coat. 

You were glad there was a photo taken, because your mind turned off somewhere around when you were next in line to go up and stayed off until you stumbled out into the hallway trying to place what it was that he smelled like. (Heaven, you decided. He smells like heaven.)

Knowing you weren't going to calm down and start your bed time routine after that dramatic moment, you grabbed your motorcycle helmet and headed for the elevators. It was a beautiful day, and you could go find a hidden spot somewhere to watch the sun go down. Maybe after that you'd have burned off some of the angst you were feeling.

You were glad this Con was close enough to home for you to ride. You loved your friends, but a road trip left you insane before the festivities even started. It was fun to share the ride with people who loved the show as much as you, but in the last couple of years your friends had started bringing their teenaged daughters. It was wonderful to have these kids you'd watched grow up join you in the fun, but it changed the dynamic from a free-wheeling girls' weekend to more of a babysitting situation. You'd probably be able to relax a little more if you didn't remember all the crazy things you and these same moms did at cons when you were their ages. 

SPN cons had always felt safer than other cons, but you still kept your antennae up. Having sons the same age, currently spending the weekend with their dad, made you just that much more aware of the fun/danger available to these beautiful girls.

Part of the reason the cons felt so safe, is because they were so family-friendly. There were, of course, the screaming teenaged fanbase, but they were nearly 1:1 with the women in their 40s and up. And it was not at all surprising to see fans in their 60s. And these mature women weren't there just to chaperone their kids, they were there because they loved the show!

 

So, since Atlanta was close enough that you could drive without needing to trade off drivers, you set off on your motorcycle. You had the entire world at your feet, and nothing to listen to but your thoughts. And your music. You didn't even have to tell anyone to shut their cakehole, Driver was the only one around.

As you were turning out onto a surface street, a car pulled into the intersection and tapped you. If you'd been in another car, it probably wouldn't even have necessitated an exchange of information, but since you were exposed you and your bike took a hit.

You popped up off the pavement, too angry to check for wounds, and marched up to the driver of the car. He was looking at your shoulder as you ripped off your helmet, and as he looked at you to ask, “Are you okay?” your mind turned off again. The driver was Misha Collins.


	2. Chapter 2

Your words of anger dried up as your throat slammed shut, and what was building into an eyebrow-singeing cascade of swears turned into a sound that was more air than squeak.

 

He looked down into your face and seemed alarmed by what he saw there. “Ooookay, let's go sit down over here on the curb.” He grabbed a water bottle out of his car and handed it to you saying, “What's your name?”  
  


“Y/N” you replied, your voice sounding far away.

 

“Y/N, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there, are you okay?”  
  
“Yeah, I'm okay. Right? I'm okay. Do you think I'm okay?” you said, trying to stop the nonsense that was dribbling out, without success, “I'm better than okay. Are you okay? If you're okay, then I'm okay.”

 

You took a deep breath and had to put your hand over your mouth, because you had no idea what might come out next.

 

You had been avoiding eye contact with Misha since you recognized him, but now you dared a sidelong peek. He was on his phone, asking for an ambulance. You said to yourself, _Y/N, he's calling for help because you're fangirling! Either get yourself together or drop dead right now!!!_

 

Since no Reapers showed up, nor Death (you'd gotten a photo with him, too, what a day!) your only option was to make normal conversation.

 

“An ambulance is on the way, and a cop too. So, we need to stay here until they tell us we can go. My name is Misha, by the way.”

 

_Here we go, here's your chance to sound normal!_

 

“I know you are, you smell like Heaven.”

 

_Shit._

 

“I mean, I know who you are because I was at the Con. I actually got a photo with you today.” That wasn't too bad, you thought.  
  
“I wondered if you were the woman from earlier! I asked you about your blue hair, and how you do it,” Misha smiled at you.

 

_Sounds like a great time_ , you thought, _wish I remembered it._ Then you smiled back, aiming for a look somewhere between - I'm paralyzed with fear- and -Oh crap, I smiled so big the bottom half of my face fell off.-

 

It must have worked, because he was looking at your shoulder again. “Oh, Y/N, that looks pretty bad, how does it feel?”

 

You saw that you had a scrape up the outside of your arm. It wasn't too bad since you'd both been going slow, but it went right through one of your tattoos. You loved that tat, but you kind of wanted it to scar up a little so you could tell everyone about the time Castiel, Angel of the Lord, nearly killed you.

 

Other than the road rash on your shoulder, you seemed intact, but you could tell it was going to feel like you'd run a marathon while pushing one of those big ass warehouse store carts tomorrow. Since you'd hit 40, you didn't bounce back like you used to.

 

The ambulance arrived first, and you were able to tell them your name, and who the President is and let them bandage up your hopefully-will-be-an-epic-story boo boo, and while that was going on, the police arrived and took Misha's statement and then yours.

 

Your bike was towed away, and you watched it go realizing _There goes my ride home. Hell, there goes my ride back to the hotel!_

 

For the first time that evening, you were wishing your friends were still in town. You were going to need a way to get around until your motorcycle was fixed. You'd put up with a lot of crap music not to have to figure out the bus schedule in a new, very large, city.

 

While you were contemplating your complete loss of independence, Misha had already done the math. As the intersection was cleared of emergency vehicles, he grabbed your elbow and said, “Hey, I feel awful. Can I take you to get some dinner and then make sure you get back to the hotel tonight?”

 

You gawped, and he thought that you were offended. “I'm not flirting, I mean, normally I would, but it seems like a bad idea since you're injured and all. Plus, if it got out that I hit pretty women with my car just to meet them, people would think I'm some kind of monster.”

 

“Dinner? Sure, thanks,” you mumbled. But inside every nerve exploded, one after the other like the lights in a marquee. _Did he just call me pretty?_

 


	3. Chapter 3

You climbed into his rental car, which was none the worse for wear after the collision, and he asked what you were in the mood to eat.

 

Immediately, your stomach shriveled up. You didn't want to eat, you wanted to hide and take a week or so to process how the day had gone so far.

 

Trying to sound casual, “I don't know, I'm not familiar with the area. Do you know any place?” You ended up at a funky Mom and Pop place. Just dark and noisy enough to feel private, without feeling hoity toity.

 

You both ordered then got a little chit chat out of the way. Once you were both up to speed on each other's hometowns, musical tastes, and he apologized a hundred more times about hitting your bike, the conversation hit a lull.

 

Desperate to end the pause, you opened your mouth and prayed that something, anything, would come out. And that whatever came out either made sense, or that you began speaking in tongues and he assumed it was an exotic foreign language and was impressed.

 

“Why do you like this place?” you said.

 

“It's easy here,” Misha said, “It's casual and the owners are great.”

 

You asked, “How are you feeling after all this?” He looked puzzled, so you went on, “After the accident. How are you feeling?”  
  
It took him a second, and then he replied, “I'm fine, don't worry about it.”

 

Looking at his face, you knew that wasn't the truth. You debated letting it go, or saying something, and while your brain was chewing that over, you heard yourself say, “That didn't sound very convincing. What's going on?”

 

As your cheeks turned pink because of your bluntness, Misha looked shocked, then started to laugh.

 

“Wow, okay then,” he said, “I'm really uncomfortable right now.”

 

_What? Why?_

 

“What? Why?”

 

Misha considered his next words carefully, then spoke, “I have a hard time with fans sometimes. --long pause-- I can't always be the quirky, crazy man they think I am. Don't get me wrong, I am that guy, but there are other parts of my personality too. And sometimes, when I need to recover, to be calm, quiet Misha, fans take it personally. I can't always be who I am when people are watching.”  
  
For the first time all evening, it occurred to you that while you'd been tied up in knots by the proximity of your crush, this wasn't easy on him either. He'd just been through what must have been a draining weekend, then just when he thought he was finally free, POW! Not just an accident, but he hit a fan. That must be a special kind of Hell.

 

As that sunk in, you started to feel less knotted up yourself. This wasn't like having dinner with **Superman, Son of Krypton**. Misha was just a regular person like you. You had to suppress a giggle when you thought that he was probably an irregular person sometimes, too, and then had a mental image of him in the bathroom, reading....and reading....

 

“Oh shit, Misha. I'm sorry,” you said. “If it helps any, I wasn't thinking of how _you_ should be. I've spent this entire time trying not to saying stupid things or drool down the front of my shirt.”

 

You both laughed a bit, then he said, “Maybe, knowing this, we should just go on from here and not worry about impressing each other, or trying to be anything or anyone we're not?  
  
“Fine,” you replied allowing yourself a dopey grin for the first time, “you be boring as hell all you want.”  
  
“And the next time I see our server I will ask for some extra napkins to wipe your chin,” Misha said, looking as if he might actually do it.

 

You shook hands over the table, and went back to eating with smiles.

 


End file.
